people work better when driven (insane) -vi)

The mouth has been watering for some time for a little taste of the really real! Far from the office-as-is. Far from the home-land-security-cam. Far from the life-support system. The Business class. The identical non pinstripe suits. The ladies unable to wear open-toed shoes. Life which is not a beach, even when you live directly on a beach. The gentleman frowned upon for windsor knotting their ties. This isn’t England. We don’t have time for that shit. Deducted from your paycheck. The mentality here. The program we must follow or else. Leave your dreams at home. Put your unpublished novels in the shredder. There’s no glory in your personal story of desecrated ennui. You owe yourself and your country some restitution, for all that rest. Bipolar? Autistic? Schizoaffective? Come one, come all! People wait in line for a diagnosis, just to get away.  Fuck the stigma. Be the illness. Covet the experience no more. Self-actualized mental illnesses. You wanna work it like that? Stranger things are happening, so get in line. Start somewhere. Let a county physician try and know you better than you know yourself. Cognitive behave yourself badly. Be a kid again, or role reverse your kids into parenting you. This is the quiet desperation of those who have spent the better part of their wonderful miserable lives within cubicles.

Heroes. That’s what we ought to start calling ourselves. Those of us who have sacrificed our sanity, to join the really real. Because heroes are the ones who wanna wake up, sunshine, and want you to wake up, too. No envy, no coveting nothing. No needing of what can be ordinarily supplied, to get them going with their bad selves and into the world that way, all human and scarred and shit, all making mistakes and so forth, all in the luxury of the poor, dishevelled, diy, really kinda real and  sensitive and depressed and anxious and emotional and socially awkward or not but creative in a way of living or working all day at some best effort cause with a heart and some passion or compassion otherwise sold at such a great discount and cost on some chopshop butcher block of supposedly trickled down economics. But instead owned and held dearly though appearing laissez-faire or loose or otherwise inaccurately judged, when all it is really, is worn out from trying. Worn out from giving. Worn out from being other than.

We are the  untold heroes and we are real. We don’t need to dream, but we do anyway. We might be found cracking nuts in some blue diamond almond factory down the street in the day. Or throwing paint chips at some glue-dipped armchair and passing it off for high art at some oakland first friday telegraph avenue meet bourbon street doused in whiskeytown rotgut penniless parade in the evening. All the drunken prairie dogs come up off their wooden skateboards to see. It looks like some lost vision.  But it’s not lost, not really. Just looks that way. Don’t be fooled. And sure, the pickpocketers will be among them. High art, my ass! will be the first thought crosses your mind. sometimes. Bottle bands and road flares lit up for applause. Kids hooked on ropes, bouncing off buildings. Calling it dance? There’s solid proof of wasted time and effort squeezing dreams dry. But we don’t let them stop us. Because this is heroics, 101. Acceptance. Insanity. Serenity. Insanity.

Can we continue? Not if we have to ask, no. This is the whole of it, to press on and on doing what you believe in most, then going to sleep, waking up, and doing it some more. You won’t always be happy, you will experience alot of pain and ridicule. But you grind up and juice some more caffeinated heroics, what with yourself and what you offer, and you offer your lifestyle, up to the world, and the young ones see you and wanna be you, because when they meet eyes and meet hearts with you, the mind falls away and the age and the physical and mental pain no longer affects us. We become made in the shade and bonded to one another. All artisans and artists, sisters and brothers. And we get beat up and beat down, and life throws us shit. But we somehow manage to just handle it. We work ourselves up to something good, something greater than great. I think we get there and feel it, then our bodies and minds let up and relax so nice. So natural from living this way. Then we can laugh our souls out right onto our tables, out of our windows and doors on the street. The light and the laughter. Replenished. Replete. Through and through, and another day approaches us and we take it, no fear. Because starvation cannot locate itself in something so dear. Its our twenty thirteen heroics gonna get us out of any bind. We are our national treasure, no doubt. keep our heroics in our attitude, share our talent like its gratitude. save the usa. this way.

January ’13 (reminisce on 2012) -i-

i can say i have been honest. you still won’t know you can trust me. i should have to prove it, right? all the greatest liars in the world would have you believe they are trustworthy. partly rainy & the chance for showers January 26, 2013 // Our misintepreted Mayan ‘doomsday’ passed and left a depressive crater in my head. My cat, well, she just had enough. She took off. Not even to come back and say goodbye to mommy. I was so fucking sad over it. I added precipitation to the forecast. Partly rainy, with a chance for showers… and a certainty of tears. Dried me out. The holidays. Robbed me of my peace of mind and stole my usual comfort and preference toward introversion. Instead, I headtripped over it. I felt betrayed and abandoned. The feelings always pass, but the lingering taste of my own blood and a bitten lip kept me dry and cold as salted fish on ice. So i treated my condition by exacerbating it. In the usual fashion. Once I feel so blue i consider myself suffering, I tend to focus on the pain. Which tends to grow in size as a result of my acknowledging and stalking it. Yes. Stalking my pain. I confess. All i knew was gone. I hit the dollar store. Sucked up snack size Mounds bars, until the coconut was so concentrated my taste buds began to freak and hit the switch on the taste, changing it to something spicy and oily like suntan lotion mixed with Crystal hot sauce. i drank this mix like soup. I took breaks between overindulgence in Mounds. I washed down my landlords Pabsts and the champagne of beers, whichever was offered. I entertained the diuretics. Cranberry juices and teas, coffee. Dried me out. I could have passed for dehydrated fruit. Yet I could not have passed, because unlike the fruit, I was not to be picked. No one would eat me. I was thin-skinned and bare boned, my left eardrum ruptured, homeless, unemployed, suffering from ptsd, sexually assaulted, victimized but not a victim, living in a truck, sucked up by life, writing to survive, bicycling to survive, getting high to survive, paranoid, hallucinating through my right ear, abandoned by my mom, eight years now and counting, depressed, paranoid… and that damn crater sunk into my chest, where my heart once resided.